


takeouts.

by arklie



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24269605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arklie/pseuds/arklie
Summary: Deep breaths fill their lungs, eyes closed—far from serene—as they lightly stretch, shifting their position to lie on their back. Heavy eyes look up to the unlit ceiling. In the monotony and repetitive schedule of their life—their investigations, the two had become synonymous especially as of late—they don’t remember just what they had been doing last night, or if they even intended to fall asleep on the comfort of their bed.Knowing themself, probably not.
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character





	takeouts.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "ross didn't get out of bed that morning."  
> written 17-18th of may  
> cast: [ross](https://toyhou.se/5023818.ross-daprosy), [marg](https://toyhou.se/5243455.marg-flanns)

Waking up feeling unrested isn't something unfamiliar. Neither does noticing the wet spots on the pillow they had rested their head on. As usual, as usual, they pretend it’s only drool, making a quiet, disgruntled noise at the back of their throat.

Deep breaths fill their lungs, eyes closed—far from  _ serene _ —as they lightly stretch, shifting their position to lie on their back. Heavy eyes look up to the unlit ceiling. In the monotony and repetitive schedule of their life—their  _ investigations _ , the two had become synonymous especially as of late—they don’t remember just  _ what _ they had been doing last night, or if they even intended to fall asleep on the comfort of their bed.

Knowing themself, probably not.

Memories peek like sheepish sunlight between the curtains, as their hand pushes their bangs out of their face—footsteps in the dark, glinting malicious eyes of theirs, the high pitch voice of a frightened someone as Ross had pulled those wonderful, bloody receipts. 

Then, they were home. And probably passed the fuck out shortly after.

A deep sigh. Another day, another blackmail, more information to tally up only to form a picture of splattered ink that doesn’t make sense, dripping pitch black to the floor until it puddles akin to a bloody crime scene. The question of  _ why  _ is left unanswered, begging the reason behind Hawkes’ unjust execution. If they don’t have answers to  _ why _ , they can’t the  _ who _ , can’t rip apart whoever was behind the breaking point of Ross’ life into _ tiny little pieces— _

_ “Ugh.” _

Despite their resolve for revengejusticerevenge, all that anger as their only fuel doesn’t seem to burn enough, today—or maybe it’s the tidal wave of grief overpowering the blaze. The cold, logical side that they had so ungracefully overworked had short-circuited, and all that’s left with them is the volatile wave of irrational sentiment boiling away at their eyes, making it hot and wet and spilling as their jaws clench and their teeth grit and they can’t breathe they can’t  _ think _ .

“Stop that,” they sob, to no one other than themself. Stop that. Get your shit together. You have things to do. Just stop fucking  _ crying _ .

In spite of their wish, the waterworks spill like a broken dam, forcing whines and whimpers out of their throat. Their face is pressed to the very same pillow, muffling the hitch of their breath and the noises between their lips—like storm pouring down, cold and freezing and uncaring until they can’t breathe.

The loud clanking of metal outside their room startles them enough to rip the storm out of their system like a fistful of grass. The shock sends jolts to their body, waking them up to the reality around them, and their mind is racing with the question of  _ hey, what the fuck? _

Despite their newly-gained grounded awareness, Ross fails to muster the mental energy to get up, instead opting to turn on their side to stare at the door as a hand wipes what remains of the tears. Regaining their ability to think, to connect the dots, they realize that they don’t even remember getting into their  _ apartment _ . So, the noise is very unlikely to be an intruder. Them lying on their bed is proof enough that a friend has been companying them since last night.

“Marg?” They call, hopefully loud enough for her to hear.

More things fall, Ross can hear it—a bunch of stainless steel utensils hitting the floor and creating a chaotic orchestra that reaches Ross’ ears through the door. The faraway sounds are still so terrible that they have to sandwich their head between the bed and the pillow, groaning in frustration. If the next sound they hear is more things falling, they might resort straight to murder this time.

Thankfully, there’s quiet for the next few moments. Unfortunately, those quiet moments open the gateway of embarrassment, with the way Ross just had a messy sobbing fit a few seconds ago.

When the door handle clicks, and light from the hallway pours into their bedroom, Marg stands with a lopsided, sheepish smile on her face. Ross considers this even—them looking like shit at god-knows-when in the morning and Marg making stupid  _ loud _ mistakes in their kitchen.

“I got you some takeouts.”


End file.
